Camera Obscura
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "It's the kind of storm that tears at the fabric of the city. It tears at the illusion of safety that pavement and walls and life high above the ground bring. It's nature come calling. Implacable and vicious." Set probably not too long after Always. Winner, 3rd place Castle Summer Hiatus Contest.


Title: Camera Obscura

Rating: K+

WC: 582

Summary: "It's the kind of storm that tears at the fabric of the city. It tears at the illusion of safety that pavement and walls and life high above the ground bring. It's nature come calling. Implacable and vicious." Set probably not too long after Always.

A/N: This won 3rd place in the Castle Summer Hiatus Contest. The guidelines, as I recall them, were: Fewer than 1000 words; at least 30 words of dialogue; having to do with Castle and its characters. I'm really grateful to the organizers and judges for the feedback and the award, as well as their work putting the contest together.

I started to write this as we were having epic storms at home, and we did lose power (for three days as it turned out) before I could finish it. Then the contest dropped like a creative little bird in my lap. It's a departure for me in a number of ways and I enjoyed writing it.

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><p>It's the kind of storm that tears at the fabric of the city. It tears at the illusion of safety that pavement and walls and life high above the ground bring. It's nature come calling. Implacable and vicious.<p>

The lights are long gone. Everywhere. Street lamps and cab lights are dark, and every window, near or distant, is black. The sky might as well be moonless for the thick swell of clouds, but she searches for it anyway. The lesser of two lights hanging somewhere above, still. It must be.

There were lights here for a while. Inside. Battery-powered things that blaze up when the current stops, but even they've given in to the storm now. She had watched as the last of them turned to amber and collapsed on itself. Some time long since, as far as she can tell from the stretch and twang of nerves.

They weren't meant for storms like this. For the kind of darkness that calls for fire. For something older. Light and heat that want tending all through the night.

Her phone is in her hand. Hard edges and black as anything. She keeps it that way. She stills the finger that creeps along the edge. Keeps a tight rein on the part of her that toys with the idea of light she can hold on to for a while. The part of her that craves that kind of lie and the illusion of control.

She closes her eyes instead. She opens them, and it makes no more difference to the darkness than the chattering of her teeth does to the wailing storm outside.

"Kate?"

It comes all at once. His voice. Sound trailing behind him. Thud and clatter and the slap of feet on floorboards. A pinpoint of light—something in his hand, maybe—disembodied and terrifying.

"Jesus. Kate. Are you . . .?"

"Here. Castle. I'm here."

Her throat works. Her lips shape the words, but he can't hear her. She can't hear herself. The storm swallows it all. A blue flash more terrible than darkness and the sharp crack of thunder. Close. So close.

The light disappears like it never was. Like it never will be again, but he's there. On his knees in front of the chair.

He scoops his arms around her. Folds her to him and draws her down. "Here, Kate." He presses his lips to her chin, her cheeks, her eyelids. "Down here with me."

She comes. He brings her a longer way than the few feet from the low leather seat to the carpet. He gathers her in, hip to hip, and slings her calves across his thighs. He winds his arm around her waist and draws a heavy blanket he found God knows where around their shoulders. Over their heads.

He finds the light again. Somehow. A keychain thing with a beam no wider than her pinky, but it blazes. It burns after all this time. She winces and he drops it again.

"Sorry. I'm here now. You're here." He kisses her hair. Whispers nonsense in her ear. "Sorry, Kate. Ok?"

He sounds worried. She tells him not to. She means to tell him, but her mouth opens and there's just the barest thread of air in her lungs. It shivers reluctantly out of her, the words as close to silent as it's possible to be. "I hate the dark."

He draws the blanket tighter around them. He presses her closer into the shelter of his body. "I know."


End file.
